Scratching At The Walls
by AccioDramurKopa
Summary: Just in case anyone cares about the late Mr. Jakob Lehnsherr. Warning; Triggering. Rated R. The Tale of a Holocaust Gas Chamber. Please be warned.


Scratching at the Walls; an X-Men FanFiction

Just in case anyone cares about the late Mr. Jakob Lehnsherr.

Warning; Triggering. Rated R. The Tale of a Holocaust Gas Chamber. Please be warned.

Angst/Tragedy

Scratching at the walls. That's all he can hear, that's all he can see. He can remember. Remember seeing the resigned, grave faces of the realists as they realize _this is the end, we're being murdered, we're never getting out, we'll never see anyone else, I'll never kiss them again, _and then the acceptance. Remember feeling angry at seeing the hopeful people, after all he is his son's father. Those that think it's just a mistake. Those that don't realize it's on purpose, they're Jews, they "belong here". Remember those that try, they have someone, something to try for. Remembers being crushed inside, he had something to get back to – Edie – but remembering he was angry at them, the ones whose faces displayed horror, not that that was important, that was on everyone's faces. But the ones who after being horrified at _they locked us in here, _then the optimism, the optimism being the annoying part, again, he was his son's father. He had the ability to be annoyed, even as he was dying. The optimism, even as the canisters fell from the ceiling, even as they choked out the words, _help us, let us out, we didn't do anything for us, we're innocent, please, let us out, please, we're dying, _even as they gouge the walls with their fingernails, the marks getting lower as their bodies shut down. Remember the bodies on the ground, remember remembering, how he wondered what the hauntingly beautiful scratches, gouges, prints, scars on the wall were, having a feeling of dread, but wondering what the scratches were, soon realizing they were memories, shadows – deathprints if you will – the last chances of hope fading. He remembers the screaming _let us out, let us out. _He remembers the choking, the coughing, the broken, bent, _I love yous_ and _I'm sorrys _directed at anyone, a her, a them, maybe even a him, it doesn't matter, not one of the men cares anymore, they're practically dead. Hoping they will be heard through walls, across miles, across continents. He remembers the cracks, and the hisses, as the canisters hit the ground and bust open, spraying noxious fumes into the air. Their air. He remembers the thumps as bodies collapse, too beat to live. Remembers the sting of the gas in his nose, his throat, it burns on the way to his lungs. It only lasts about three minutes, but it is three minutes of torture. He remembers feeling the bones snap from the bodies underneath him as he walked crawled limped to the wall. Feeling like if he could make his own mark, Edie and Erik would remember him, remember his legacy. It is not like they will ever see it, which is what he chooses to think, but that they will feel this scratch. He remembers the pain as the bodies block his way, as his body shuts down. It's taking longer than the others; he is the last one standing. He remembers the thought of his family, as the last line is made on the wall, with a screech, a distinctive noise he will remember for the rest of his life, as short as that may be. A single fingernail carves into the wall a single line. He is his son's father though, and so he makes it horizontal, like a timeline. A last act of rebellion against the Führer. You cannot kill me. These memories flood his mind, and he feels a powerful sensation in his gut, assuming it is his gut, he cannot see, and it seems like he is half anywhere, like everything around him is calling him, responding to him, and everyone and everything is connected and the world is his. This must be what it feels like to die.

Blackness.

Then nothing.

He doesn't know he is a being. Somewhere, that is here, but there too, not here, but not there. Nowhere. But somewhere. Confused yet? So is he.

He is not in Auschwitz, or Birkenau, or anywhere. He doesn't even know where those names come from. They're just in his head, and that's all he remembers. The one thing he can think, in this place that is not a place, because he can remember remembering something. But what?

One sentence keeps repeating itself, over and over, like a chant. Like something he should have said a million times, and must say. Mean it. It is the rule. He is. Am. I.

_Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler. _

**This was kind of confusing, but it was supposed to be. I am not sure if this will be a one-shot or not. **


End file.
